


And Then There Was One

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst and Feels, Anniversary, Brotherly Love, Cousins, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cybertronian, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Explanations, Forgetful Prowl, Hugs, Ignoring Feelings, Late Night Conversations, Memorials, Mid-Canon, Missing Persons, Oblivious, Office Work, Rants, Running, September 11 Attacks, Singing, Transformers Spark Bonds, Twins, Worry, Written for 9/11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:46:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4777484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though it's 1984 and the September attack has not yet happened, that's not to say there isn't an anniversary to be remembered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then There Was One

“Um, hey, Prowl? Can I talk to ya?”

Prowl glanced up at Jazz’s voice to find his fellow officer with half of his body already through the double doors to his office. “Of course,” Prowl assured him, setting aside his data pad and folding his hands expectantly. Jazz flashed a (very) brief smile and entered the rest of the way, leaning his arms against the back of the chair in front of Prowl’s desk.

“What can I do for you?”

“Actually, it’s not for me,” Jazz informed him. “It’s for you. Though mostly for the _other_ half of you.”

Prowl sighed, lifting his hands and resting his chin on them. “Was he talking through Special Ops. training again? I’ve already given you permission to discipline him accordingly.”

“Nah, that’s not it, Prowler,” Jazz refuted that idea, his frown deepening. “Actually, he didn’t show up.”

Prowl sat up a little straighter, these words having caught his attention. “That’s not like him. Even if he talks too much to really listen, he usually shows up without fail.”

“I know, so I went lookin’ for him. He wasn’t in any of his usual places—y’know, the rec room, the roof, visiting the Twins in the brig, etc.—so I asked around for him instead. No one’s seen him today. I was wondering if he’d left a note with you or somethin’.” Jazz’s visor fluctuated as he leaned over to examine the stack of data pads by Prowl’s right elbow. “Maybe it got buried under your paperwork?”

“Perhaps,” Prowl agreed, pulling the top data pad off for study, only for Jazz to hold up a hand.

“I’ll check those. It’d be faster for you to ask him, right?”

Nodding his gratitude, Prowl concentrated his half of the spark. _~:Bluestreak?:~_ Almost before he had finished the second syllable of his twin’s name, he felt a sharp, agonized shudder from the other side. When Prowl nudged Bluestreak on the spark plane in concern, Bluestreak responded by weakly nudging him back.

“Something’s wrong,” Prowl said immediately, causing Jazz to drop the data pad he’d been examining.

“What is it? Where is he?” his friend demanded, but Prowl’s optics had fastened onto the screen of the pad, onto the screen’s contents. Most specifically, the date.

“ _Oh_ ,” Prowl gasped, scrambling out of his chair so quickly that he swept the entire stack of pads from his desk. He vaguely heard Jazz call his name as he slid through the double doors, painfully tweaking one of his doorwings, but he didn’t care. How could he have _forgotten_?

With Jazz riding his heelstruts, Prowl sprinted down the halls of the Ark to his brother’s room, stopping just short of entering. He had to calm himself; he couldn’t storm into this fragile situation in a panic.

“Can you tell me what’s happening?” Jazz pleaded.

Prowl vented deeply, resting a hand on the doorframe and watching his fingers tremble. “Today is the anniversary, Jazz. The day the Decepticons ravaged our home city.”

Jazz took an involuntary step back. “And Bluestreak was the only…” He looked away for a klik or two before questioning, “Should I leave?”

“No, wait for me. Summon Smokescreen. He’ll know when you two can come in,” Prowl instructed.

Jazz nodded and Prowl silently thanked Primus for his friend’s solemnity and compliance in this matter. Sighing, he used his high-ranking codes to unlock the door and entered the berthroom. There was no light, not even through the crack under the washroom door, but when Prowl contracted his optics he could vaguely make out a huddled mass underneath the thermal tarp on the berth.

He approached quietly, cautiously, and crouched on the right side of the berth, placing his left hand on the pad and just…waiting. He knew it would come soon. Sure enough, Bluestreak’s hand shot out from underneath the tarp and seized his, squeezing it forcefully enough to leave dents beneath his fingertips. Prowl ignored the tingle in his pain receptors, keeping his returning squeeze gentle.

Though Bluestreak was the only survivor of the attack—the _massacre_ —Prowl wasn’t unaffected by memories. He and Smokescreen had both lost friends who still lived in the city. It seemed as they led the Autobot team through the ashes that there wasn’t a single frame foreign to them. They knew so many, even if it was from a brief goodbye before they had both been transferred.

When Prowl had entered the Helix Gardens, he had hoped to hear…something. The hum of the crystalline atmosphere? Ended by the crystals’ destruction. The kind but solemn teachers? All slain in the methods most demeaning. The Gardens hadn’t even looked to be the same place. Prowl almost hoped he would hear screaming or crying, just to know that _someone_ was alive.

One had been. Primus had given Prowl the smallest and yet utmost mercy by delivering his brother. Prowl of the present felt a chill trickle down his backstrut and he leaned forward slightly, using his free hand to stroke the top of Bluestreak’s helm. To his surprise, Bluestreak flinched away, releasing his hand and sitting up quite suddenly.

“I’m okay, Prowl, you didn’t have to come. I’m going to be fine; I just need to get through the day, get a little recharge and an energon cube and then I’ll be totally good, just like I always am the day afterwards.”

“That’s not how _I_ remember the day afterwards,” Prowl answered calmly but honestly. Kicking away his thermal tarp, Bluestreak leapt to his feet and continued as though he hadn’t heard. Maybe he hadn’t; Prowl couldn’t be sure of anything regarding his brother on this day.

“So, have to keep myself busy. Sorry I missed the Special Ops. training today, Prowl; hopefully I won’t get in too much trouble with Jazz, right? Maybe you could just explain what today was about, y’know, so he’d understand? Jazz’s really good about stuff like that,” he remarked as he strode toward the washroom, barely waiting for the door to finish opening before he entered, turning on the light and then stopping at the sink. Prowl watched as he reached for the handle to the faucet and then stopped, thinking better of it. Liquid of any kind would just remind him of spilled energon.

“Bluestreak…” Increasingly worried, Prowl sat on the side of the berth, watching Bluestreak study himself in the mirror, his quick, shallow ventilations and not-quite composed face the only signs that he wasn’t in control.

“Prowl, I don’t want pity. I want to not think about it or mention it. I want to break the habit I have of feeling sorry for myself every time today comes around. We’re on a completely different world and I should be alright with this by now.”

“Bluestreak—”

“I spend every day of my life since then trying to get revenge on the Decepticons, even though most of the ones who did it are already offline, so when today comes I should be proud of my progress, not moping in my berth, right? Of course, with how screwy I’ve gotten, I don’t always remember that I was lucky. I’m alive, both halves, and that should be good enough for me—”

“Bluestreak!” Prowl cried sharply, wrenching him to a stop through their bond. Rising to his feet, Prowl strode for his brother, physically gripping him with only a fraction less force.

“You are _not_ alright,” Prowl hissed. “Neither of us are when it comes to this and neither of us _ever_ will be. I do not pity you and I will not let you ignore it, if only for the sake of those lost lives! In the Allspark, I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever that they want to be remembered, they want someone to cry and scream and _fight_ for them because that is how they survive. What you swore when you became an Autobot is that you will have your revenge, but what you want—what _we_ want—is not revenge. Revenge is to do a wrong in exchange for a wrong. Those people we lost, they will be _avenged_ , because that honor rightfully belongs to them, and if you choose to simply ignore your grief, I will gladly take up your oath because I know that I won’t stop until what can still be set right has been!”

Bluestreak’s optics cycled wide in disbelief and Prowl abruptly realized that his cheeks had become wet somewhere during his speech. He released a shuddering ex-vent and let his grip slide down Bluestreak’s arms to his hands.

“As I said, I don’t pity you, Blue. But…it kills me to see you like this, brother. I wonder if I hadn’t let us grow distant these last centuries, if you would be able to process your pain instead of hiding it. I wonder if I had taken you with me to the Autobots from the start, if we could have handled the news better, far from Praxus, _together_.”

“Probably,” Bluestreak agreed in a choked whisper. “But that’s not what happened. So…you’re here trying to comfort me instead of thinking about _you_.”

At that moment the twins heard the door slide open and when they emerged from the washroom, Smokescreen charged for them, stretching his arms in an attempt to hug them both at once. Jazz shuffled in uncertainly, turning on the main lights as Bluestreak plunged into hysterics, Prowl hid his face to weep in silence and Smokescreen steered them awkwardly to the berth before their legs gave out.

As an outsider Jazz wasn’t sure where to go or how long to wait before he tried to approach them. This was an intensely private matter and yet Prowl had said he ought to stay and wait. Wait he did, leaning against the wall and staying discreet as Smokescreen spoke softly to his cousins in Praxian. Occasionally the unfamiliar form of Cybertronian would take on a more musical lilt, Prowl and Bluestreak would join in, and Jazz would stand a little straighter in respect of whatever song they were singing for their lost comrades.

One of the times this happened, Jazz still didn’t understand their words, but he recognized the tune as something the sparklings of Iacon had been taught. Acting on impulse, he dug through his CPU and found the instrumental recording, playing it on a volume just loud enough to be heard. The last three Praxians repeated the song in the Common Cybertronian and Jazz took this as permission to join in, though his throat stuck on all but the last line:

**:: _Qro p’je, qro p’je_ …:: **

_Save my home, save my home_ …


End file.
